


Concede

by Demerite



Series: Scent, Sense, Balance [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alpha!Geralt, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Arguing, Bathing/Washing, Biting, Bonding, Canon-Typical Violence, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Monsters, Omega!Jaskier, Protective!Geralt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:10:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23129341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demerite/pseuds/Demerite
Summary: Jaskier knows Geralt wants him.He just doesn’t want to beBondedto him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Scent, Sense, Balance [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1662523
Comments: 25
Kudos: 842
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	Concede

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to "[Bend, Break, Breathe](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22544053/chapters/53870182)" and I'd really recommend reading that first.
> 
> My Witcher lore is based entirely on the Netflix series and the five minutes I spent browsing the wiki, but none of you are here to learn the difference between an alghoul and a graveir anyways, right?

There’s nothing particularly unusual about the tavern where everything changes. It’s like any other tavern in any other small town - a little shabby, a little worn, but buzzing with conversation that falls silent for a breath when Geralt opens the door and steps inside. The silence doesn’t last long though - people here are either incurious, or just don’t care - before people turn back to their drinks and conversations before Geralt and Jaskier can even make it to the bar.

No-one approaches them while they eat, or while Jaskier gets up to play, although the coin that is sent appreciatively his way by the time he’s finished will be a good start towards supplies. It’s not until Jaskier is finished playing and has packed his lute back into its leather case that he realises Geralt isn’t in the corner he’d sat in for the entire time he’d been playing. Jaskier always knows where Geralt is, even when he’s lost in song, Geralt’s attention is the only one he heeds.

He looks around, confused for a heartbeat, before his gaze lands on Geralt, on the other side of the tavern from where he’d been before, head bent in conversation with two of the townsfolk. Jaskier isn’t on the right angle to read Geralt’s words from the movement of his lips, but he’s pretty sure one of the men says ‘ghoul’. Jaskier knows that most of the time people talk about ghouls, they mean a graveir, or if they’re unlucky, something worse. Not that there’s a _they _when it comes to him, and Geralt, and killing monsters. Jaskier is still abandoned at campsites and inns and towns to wait while Geralt goes into battle.

Jaskier is watching Geralt so intently across the room, so focused on trying to glean more of what is going on in the conversation that he doesn’t register the Alpha approaching him from behind and towards the side until the man is already far too close, breath hot and Scent overpowering as he leans into Jaskier’s space.

Jaskier knows what is going to happen immediately. It’s the same things that happens every time they’re in a tavern and get separated. At least when he’s performing, Geralt is close enough that people know he’s still watching, glaring at anyone who dares get close to Jaskier. But when he’s on his own like he is now, he goes from being off-limits to being a tempting target for Alphas who are hungry to get their hands on the Omega who belongs to the White Wolf.

Jaskier hates and loves that in equal measures. On the one hand, he heats that attention from the other Alphas, because none of them are Geralt. He hates that they think they have a chance, and all because he doesn’t have a Bite to signify that Geralt has claimed him. But on the other hand…the attention is a little flattering. It’s nice to know that he can still draw attention, even if it’s in part of who he ‘belongs’ to.

Although he doesn’t _really _belong to Geralt. Not in the way he wants to.

There hasn’t been another Heat since the first one, and Geralt refuses to talk to him about the possibility of a Bite, even though he'd promised Jaskier they'd have a conversation about it. And yet, every time Jaskier tries to bring it up, Geralt finds a way to sidestep the conversation.

Jaskier knows it's not because Geralt doesn't want him. They've fucked countless times since that Heat, but not only that; they've also slept in each other's arms, lain together in the evenings and early mornings alike, and kissed each other for the sheer joy of kissing enough times that Jaskier knows that's not the case. He knows Geralt wants him. He just doesn't want to be Bonded to him.

Jaskier side steps away from the interloping Alpha, sliding out from beneath the arm that is angled to pin him against the bar before he's well and truly caught. The man's Scent is too much, too strange, not at all like the warm, welcoming way that Geralt smells, his Scent mixed with magic and her s, leather and horse and clean sweat. This Alpha doesn't smell like any of that, and it immediately sets every one of Jaskier's nerves on edge, his every instinct telling him to run.

"My apologies." Jaskier murmurs, not making any form of eye-contact, "Let me get out of your way."

"Not so fast, Omega." The Alpha growls and Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from simply kneeing the bastard in the balls and having done with it. If he turns the townspeople against them, they may decide they're not desperate enough to have Geralt fight their monster for them, and they'll leave town without payment.

"I think," Jaskier side-steps again, comes up against the corner where the bar meets the wall, and stops, "You must have me confused for another Omega. I have an Alpha."

The Alpha snorts a laugh that makes Jaskier feel cold. "Funny," He says, looking Jaskier up and down with exaggerated slowness, "Don't see a Bite on you."

Jaskier doesn't have an answer for this. He never has one. He hates it _so much _that only the claim of an Alpha will make another Alpha back away. He hates that he can't just roll his eyes and tell someone bothering him to fuck off, that he has no say in this at all. He hates that he's treated like the property of someone who isn't even beside him right now.

"I know who you are." The Alpha leans in, Scenting him properly now, "You're the Omega that Witcher drags around after him."

There's barely any gap between them. Jaskier can smell the Alpha's breath, sour over his Scent, can feel the ghost of hot breath over his throat even he leans back to try to get away, even with his back already pressed against solid wood.

"What does he do with you, hmm?" The Alpha asks, "Brings you along to fuck whenever he wants, but won't give you a Bite? That's not natural." He shakes his head, then laughs, that same low sound that sets Jaskiers' teeth on edge, "But there are those who would. Here." There's a flash of pointed teeth, too close to Jaskier's through for comfort, and Jaskier _freezes_.

No.

No no no no no there's no way that this Alpha is actually going to attempt a Bite. Not here. Not like this. He doesn't want this! Jaskier's mind is screaming at him, telling him to fight, to lash out and defend himself, to flee, to get back to Geralt and safety, but his body is rendered inert by that same fear that is pounding through his brain, through his blood, rooting him to the spot, eyes wide.

Before Jaskier can shake off the fear, a heavy hand lands on his shoulder, and that's enough to force him to draw in a sharp breath, and when he does, it comes with a lungful of a familiar Scent. Geralt is there, standing as his side, tall and imposing and threatening in every aspect of his being.

"Jaskier," He says, "Come on." And he pulls him away before Jaskier or the other Alpha can say anything, and Jaskier is so hopelessly, desperately grateful for the entire time it takes Geralt to all but drag him out of the taproom and across the courtyard to the stables that he can't even give voice to his thanks.

"Another former conquest's husband?" Geralt asks, and there's an almost teasing tone to his voice as he steps into Roach's stall.

Jaskier leans on the half-door, safely out of the mare's biting range, and tries to make the words sound casual when he manages to say, "An Alpha offering me a Bite, actually."

Geralt freezes, hands dropping from Roach's bridle. Even with his dull, human senses, Jaskier can smell the change in his Scent. It's impossible to miss. Geralt is _furious. _

"He _what?" _Geralt asks, that there's a coldness and harshness to his voice that Jaskier hasn't heard since they first started riding together when they were practically strangers.

Jaskier tries to maintain the air of nonchalance. "It happens often enough," He says, "Some Alpha will realise who I am, that I am 'The Witcher's Omega' and that I don't have a Bite on me," Jaskier tugs at his collar to emphasis the point, revealing the place on his neck where a Bite would scar, if he had one, if Geralt had given him once during those days in the forest, "And when they realise I'm on my own and unclaimed, they offer to give me one." He doesn't miss the way Geralt's eyes are darkening, rage, not potions taking over, and he presses on, "Of course, they never intend to let me refuse." He adds a little bitterly.

"Stay away from them then." Geralt slings the saddle over Roach's back, stepping around her to tighten the girth. Jaskier can hear how he's gritting his teeth even from there though.

"I can't just _predict _where they're gonna come from, Geralt!" Jaskier huffs, "Have you forgotten that Alphas can Scent an unbonded Omega _miles _off?" He's being hyperbolic about _miles, _but not by all that much. Even normal Alphas, not blessed with Witcher senses, can Scent an unbonded Omega in a crowded room. "There's another solution, you know." Jaskier adds, because he's _not _giving up on getting Geralt to actually _talk_ to him about this.

Geralt glances at him over Roach’s back. “No.” He says, with a finality in his voice that Jaskier sees as nothing more than a challenge, even if Geralt intends it as a dismissal. He starts to lead Roach from the stall, and Jaskier has to skip backwards to avoid being trodden on.

“Geralt, we need to talk about this!” He snaps, following him out of the stable and into the torchlit twilight of the courtyard, “Don’t you walk away!”

Geralt walks away without looking back. “There’s nothing to talk about.” He says flatly, that tone Jaskier has heard a thousand times before; the one that Geralt employs when he thinks he knows better than Jaskier and won’t be challenged on it.

“There _is._” Jaskier argues, slipping in front of Geralt, stopping directly between him and the courtyard gate, setting his stance, feet planted, weight centred, glaring.

Geralt actually stops, rather than just step around Jaskier or push him aside, and levels him with a glare of his own that most people would cower in front of.

Jaskier just raises his eyebrows.

“You swore we’d talk about this when my Heat was done.” He points out, “It’s done. Let’s talk. It’s been _weeks, _Geralt.”

Geralt continues to glare. “I said, there’s nothing to talk about,” he growls.

“I don’t understand how you can think that!” Jaskier is unable to continue containing his frustration. Not after the events in the tavern. How can Geralt see that and still think that it’s a bad idea? “You didn’t even let me speak! All you said was no!”

“That’s all there is to say.”

“Maybe for you.” Jaskier snaps, “You’re being selfish!”

“What?” Geralt, already shifting his weight to push past Jaskier, stops.

Jaskier’s gaze is steady, even though he can hear the rushing of his pulse in his ears as he looks back into golden eyes. He’s not _afraid _of Geralt, not physically. Geralt won’t strike him, he knows, but there are other things he could do that will hurt just as much. But this is too important to stay silent on.

“Have you ever stopped to consider what I want?”

“Jaskier…” Geralt starts, a weariness in his voice, but Jaskier is angry and afraid, and he’s started down this path, he’s not going to be stopped now.

“No, you shut up and listen for once in your unreasonably long life.” He snaps.

Geralt raises his eyebrows, but he doesn’t try to say anything else.

“Look,” Jaskier sighs, “If you’re saying you don’t want to talk about this because you’ve changed your mind about wanting me, then _fine, _I can accept that.” Jaskier knows full well that if that _is _the case it will destroy him, but he doesn’t think it is. Not given the amount of time they’ve spent together, the things they’ve done since his Heat. “But if you’re trying to decide this - who I should want, who I should be Bonded to, _for me _then so help me Geralt I’ll never forgive you.” He pauses to take a breath in the midst of what is going to be a truly impassioned tirade to see that Geralt is looking at him with unusual, unnatural stillness.

Geralt blinks once.

“The second one, then?” Jaskier asks.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says with a sigh, but he doesn’t continue.

“No, go on, I want to hear this.” Jaskier braces his hands on his hips. He wants to know what the hell is going on inside Geralt’s head. Usually, he can follow his - occasionally somewhat insane - logic.

“I’m not going to bind you to me.” Geralt says finally, “Not to this life.”

It’s Jaskier’s turn to sigh. “I see.” He says, careful to keep all emotion out of his voice, lest he starts shouting at this absolute idiot of a man. He’d thought they were past this discussion, the argument they’ve had what feels like a thousand times before about Jaskier following Geralt into danger. But apparently not.

“I knew you would.” Geralt nods, stepping back to loop the reins up over Roach’s neck.

Does Geralt _really _think that’s as far as this conversation is going? Jaskier tries to get in Geralt’s way again, to stop him, but Geralt is already on the other side of Roach, and the mare twitches her ears threateningly at him when Jaskier gets any closer.

“Geralt, that’s not the end of this!” Jaskier objects.

“It is.” Geralt says with a shrug, “I have a graveir to hunt.”

“Well, I’ll come with you then.” Jaskier insists. He’d rather follow Geralt into a fight with a monster than go back to that close and crowded taproom.

“No. It’s too dangerous.”

“I’m safer with you than I am back there with those brutes pawing at me, Geralt!” Jaskier gestures almost violently back in the direction of the tavern.

“You’re not coming.” Geralt swings himself up into the saddle, “Go up to the room and barricade the door if you’re worried.” He adds, twitching the reins.

“Fine.” Jaskier snaps, “Just...tell me one thing first?”

Geralt inclines his head in a nod.

“If you weren’t a Witcher...would you give me what I want?” Jaskier already knows what Geralt is going to say, but he wants to hear him say it.

Geralt says nothing for a breath. “Yes,” He says finally, “But it doesn’t matter. Neither of us can change what we are, Jaskier.”

And with that, he nudges Roach into a trot, and he’s gone, only the sound of hoofbeats on cobblestones echoing behind him.

Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut, counts to fifty, swears viciously, and starts back towards the stables at a run.

Sprout raises her grey head and chuffs air through her nose at him in greeting, and he rubs at her forehead for a moment before reaching for her saddle where it’s draped over the half-door to her stall. Jaskier has only owned Sprout for a fortnight, but she’s already proving herself to be the best and most dependable horse he’s ever owned.

Getting Sprout had been Geralt’s idea, claiming that is Jaskier was going to keep following him, he’d be faster if he was mounted, and that they couldn’t _both _keep riding Roach. Jaskier had taken the suggestion as Geralt wanting him to stay, and he’d had to hide the outpouring of emotions he’d felt at the realisation in a kiss that had lead to considerably more.

Now, however, he’s not feeling anything so tender towards Geralt. “He’s such an idiot!” He growls as he tightens straps with quick movement. Sprout tosses her head, sensing his mood and his anxiety to get moving, but otherwise stands still. “‘This conversation is over, Jaskier’.” He grumbles, in a passable imitation of Geralt’s voice, “Who does he think he’s talking to? Does he think I’m content not to have a say?!”

He leads Sprout out of the stable and mounts up in a quick, fluid motion, settling into a saddle. Riding has always come naturally to him, and he feels far more comfortable astride Sprout’s strong back than he does on two feet most times.

“Come on,” Jaskier mutters, turning Sprout in the direction of the forest and nudging her sides lightly with his heels. He has a fair idea of which way he needs to go, and once he’s in the forest he knows it will be easy enough to follow Geralt to the beast’s lair. He’d overheard enough talk in the tavern to know where he’s going.

He’s going to prove, once and for all, that this life isn’t too dangerous for him, and that Geralt’s excuse about not wanting Jaskier in harm’s way is nothing but that…just a week excuse.

Geralt won’t smell him coming. He’s already realised that outside of Jaskier’s heat, they smell so much like each other from so much time spent in close proximity that unless he’s idiotically noisy once he’s in the forest, Geralt won’t know he’s there until Jaskier is beside him. Jaskier has known this for a while now, but his suspicious had been confirmed only a week ago, when he inadvertently snuck up on Geralt while he was bathing, and nearly got himself stabbed.

Outside of the torchlit streets of the town, the forest is dark. The moon, all but full, is just starting to rise, and the shadows are long and menacing, making Jaskier jump at flinch at strange noises, even as Sprout continues along, unbothered. Even if Jaskier strains his hearing to its limit, he cannot hear a second set of hoofbeats. Geralt must be a long ways ahead of him already.

Jaskier lets one hand rest on the hilt of his dagger, the long silver blade the only real weapon he carries. Geralt talks about him needing a sword, but Jaskier hasn’t been able to find anything like what he’s used to, so until then, the silver knife will have to do.

The forest, once easily silent, springs to life, the calm shattered by an earsplitting roar.

Jaskier jolts in surprise, and beneath him, Sprout does too, flicking her ears back and sidestepping nervously. But the sound, though loud and terrifying, is enough to tell Jaskier that he’s headed in the right direction, and sure enough around the next bend in the road, there’s a deer-track that leads directly in the direction of the sounds.

Against every instinct in his body telling him to flee, Jaskier turns Sprout towards it and nudges her into a canter. The roar comes again, louder, fiercer, closer. The further they run into the trees, the louder it becomes, and soon they’re interspersed with the crashing of branches and the wet thud of blade meeting flesh.

Abruptly, Jaskier and Sprout burst out of the trees and into a clearing, the space illuminated by crisp, cold moonlight, shadows pitch dark. Roach, at the tree-line, lifts her head and lets out a soft huff in greeting, flicking her ears in Sprout’s direction and pointedly ignoring Jaskier as they stop beside her.

Ahead of them, on the rough dirt and grass floor of the clearing, Geralt is locked in vicious combat with…well, even Jaskier can tell it’s not a graveir. It’s bigger, nastier, and _angrier _than any graveir he’s ever seen - not that he’s seen many, but honestly seeing the first one was enough for him, and he’s unlikely to forget.

Some detached part of his mind recalls Geralt telling him that alghouls are bigger, nastier and angrier than graveirs. He’s not sure why that information is locked away in his brain, unknown and unneeded until now, but it hardly matters what the beast is, because Geralt is going to kill it, and Jaskier is going to be there while he does, and that will prove to Geralt once and for all that Jaskier really means it about this life being for him. It’s not too dangerous, not while Geralt is there to protect him.

But, as Jaskier watches the fight, an insidious sliver of doubt makes his way into his certainty that Geralt actually _can _kill the alghoul. It’s big, and it’s strong, and it’s _fast, _Geralt’s sword barely strikes it, although even from this distance, Jaskier can see that the silver is burning flesh where it makes contact, the stink of it acrid where it carries towards him. But Geralt isn’t winning.

Jaskier watches, horror dawning inside of him, as Geralt is forced back by the beast, as he has no other option but to give ground, back up steadily. But it’s going to be alright. Any second now, Geralt will pull out one of his tricks. Jaskier has watched him fight enough times to know that Geralt always has a clever idea tucked away somewhere. Any second now.

And then, Geralt falls.

Jaskier can’t see if it’s that the beast trips him, or something else, but one moment Geralt is sure-footed, sword in hand, and the next he’s on his back in the dirt, sword out of reach, scrambling away from the alghoul as he reaches for his weapon.

Jaskier sits, unable to move, transfixed. He watches the ways Geralt’s hands move, signing _aard, _but the power isn’t enough to push the beast back, and then it’s atop him, and Geralt is using all the strength he possesses to keep the madly-snapping jaws from catching flesh, all the while the beast snarling and screaming with rage as it tries to bite.

Sprout shifts from foot to foot beneath Jaskier, and it’s that movement that brings him back to his senses, spurs him into action. Without thinking through what he’s doing - the way Geralt likes to insist Jaskier functions at all times - his feet are on solid ground. Geralt’s steel sword is still in its scabbard on Roach’s saddle. It feels awkward and heavy in Jaskier’s hands, he’s used to a lighter and thinner blade than this, but it doesn’t matter because he’s not thinking about that; he has the sword in on hand and since dagger in the other and he’s running, running towards where Geralt and the alghoul are still locked in combat.

Jaskier couldn’t say that happens next, not in its entirety. He remembers swinging the sword, and possibly yelling, and he remembers the impact, the sickening feeling of steel biting into the beast’s flesh. He remembers the way is screams, writhing and twisting, the sword being pulled in his hands, but he doesn’t let go. He remembers the clawed hands that grab at him, and he remembers raising the silver dagger, such a delicate, pretty little thing, and catching those grasping talons with it.

And then Geralt is there, silver sword in hand, and the beast’s head is on the ground between them, and its body crumples at their feet in the dirt.

They look at each other in the moonlight.

Jaskier is still holding Geralt’s steel sword in his right hand. He’s panting, breathless, a little shaky, and there’s blood on his doublet, his arm, and he’s pretty sure that the wet sensation on his cheek is blood too.

Geralt looks him up and down for a moment, then sighs heavily, “You’re going to keep following me, aren’t you?” HE asks, and for all that his eyes are still potion-black, Jaskier thinks he can see affection in them all the same.

“Yes.” He’s proud of his steadily his voice comes out.

“Even after this?” Geralt tips his head in the direction of the alghoul’s corpse, the dark blood pooling on the forest floor, “Even if I can’t always protect you?”

Jaskier nods again, “Still don’t think I don’t want this life? With you?"

Geralt looks at him for another few moments, “Alright.” He says, and bends to pick up the beast’s head from the dirt.

Jaskier blinks. “Wait, alright as in….'alright’?” He trails off, hoping Geralt will finish the statement and tell him exactly what he meant, but that trick has never worked on Geralt, so he doesn’t hold out much hope.

Geralt, already in Roach’s saddle, looks back at him, “Come on Jaskier.” He says, “I’m not biting you while you’re covered in ghoul blood.”

Jaskier runs for Sprout.

***

The tavern isn’t deserted when they return, but it is emptier than before. Jaskier is relieved to note that the Alpha who has backed him into a corner with his threats is gone. Geralt drops the beasts head on the surface of the bar with little ceremony, and there is a scramble from the townsfolk to pay him.

Someone wraps the alghoul’s head in an oilskin, saying something about taking it to their wizard, but Geralt doesn’t pay them any heed beyond stepping aside to let them take it. In a low voice, he negotiates with the innkeeper to have a bath drawn for them, food and wine sent to their room, and for someone to take care of their horses. Jaskier sticks close to him, not touching, but close enough that he can breathe in his Scent over the smell of blood and dirt.

And then they’re walking up the stairs, and to their room, and Jaskier still feels a little like he’s in a daze.

There’s a fire lit in the grate, a tray of food and a bottle of wine on the table by the bed, and there’s already water steaming in the tub for their bath. Apparently killing the monster than has been eating townsfolk gets you very nice treatment, Jaskier muses.

The moment the door closes, Geralt sets his weapons down, leant against the wall, and starts to undress. Jaskier follows suit, feeling oddly disconnected from his own body, but not from the entire situation. His thoughts are whirling. Had Geralt really meant what he’s said? Or had he just agreed to Bite Jaskier in the heat of the moment, to get him out of the forest and back to safety?

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, and Jaskier realises that while he’s been thinking, Geralt has disrobed entirely, and is already in the bath, leaning back against the side of the tub, “Are you coming?”

Jaskier lets the shirt he’s holding drop to the floor, and crosses to the tub. He has to clamber awkwardly over the edge, but it’s worth it to sink into the warm water next to Geralt. They’ve bathed together plenty of times, in streams and lakes and rivers, but even after Jaskier’s first heat, after the first time they’d fucked, it’s not been quite like this. This is something calmer, something gentler.

Or it is, until Geralt grabs Jaskier and pulls him into his lap.

Jaskier squeaks in surprise, but settles into his embrace with a smile, “Hello,” He says, leaning down to bump their foreheads together lightly.

Geralt tightens through arms around Jaskier’s waist, as if he intends never to let him go, “You,” He grumbles, “Are too reckless.”

“Mmm,” Jaskier agrees, leaning down for a long, slow kiss, “Probably.”

For long moments, they just kiss, hands roaming over skin, and bodies fitting back together comfortably, like they’ve always meant to be pressed together like this. It feels more like coming home than Jaskier has realised it does.

“You might have died.” Geralt says, between kisses.

“So might you.” Jaskier’s teeth catch on Geralt’s lower lip and Geralt’s growls, his grip around Jaskier’s waist going tighter. He buries his face in Jaskier’s neck…and then recoils, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

“You smell like ghoul blood.” He complains.

“You too.” Jaskier admits, reaching for the bar of soap roasting on the edge of the tub, “It’s probably better that we actually bathe first.”

“Hmm.” Geralt agrees.

Jaskier’s hands are gentle as he cleans blood, dirt, and twigs from Geralt’s hair, combing carefully through white strands. Later, when it’s dry, he’ll persuade Geralt to let him braid it, at least the strands that always fly into his face and bother him. Geralt will complain and grumble at him, but he’ll agree, He always does. Jaskier likes to think it’s because Geralt enjoyed his hair being played with, the same way a grumpy old housecat enjoys being petted. Which he to say Jaskier thinks he likes it a lot, but will never admit it.

Geralt is equally gentle as he washed the sticky blood from Jaskier’s cheek, takes ahold of his hands to scrub the dark flecks from where they’ve dried into the creases of his knuckles, cups his cheek to tilt his head to make sure he’s gotten it all washed away. Jaskier leans his face into Geralt’s palm, then dips his head to press his lips to the pulse-point in Geralt’s wrist, breathing in his Scent, mixed now with the clean smell of soap. He smells like everything Jaskier has learned how to think of as home.

“I meant what I said,” Jaskier murmurs against the skin, eyes closed, “You can’t make these decisions alone, Geralt. I chose this life, and I chose you, and I _want _to bind myself to you, risks and monsters and all.” He kisses the same spot again, “If you truly don’t want this, I won’t ask again,” He looks up into golden eyes, “But _stop _trying to make the decision for me.”

“I meant what I said too.” Geralt slides the hand against Jaskier’s cheek until it rests on the back of his neck, a solid, calming pressure that Jaskier can’t help but go a little limp under, “I’m not giving you a Bite while you’re covered in blood.”

“I’m not covered in blood anymore.” Jaskier points out, a smile twitching his lips upwards. He knows this, this flirtatious back-and-forth, “You made very sure of that.”

Geralt’s smile has a sharpness to it, a hint of teeth and devilish intent, “I know.” He says.

Jaskier nestles into his embrace, arching so his neck is bared in a blatant display of exactly where he wants Geralt’s teeth so desperately. He feels the vibrations of Geralt’s laugh in his chest.

“So eager.” Geralt says, teasing.

“Geralt.” Jaskier complains, and if there’s a whining note to it be can’t be bothered to care.

“Soon,” Geralt promises, pressing a kiss to that same spot that makes Jaskier shiver, “Food first.”

Jaskier makes an offended face that this declaration, but his traitor of a stomach picks this moment to growl loudly, and he realises that yes, he’d managed to get a hot meal before he’d performed earlier that night, he’s starving again. Apparently, killing monsters gives you an appetite.

“Good point.” He admits, and then he’s pulling out of Geralt’s hold, ready to stand and go in search of the food that had been delivered, but Geralt just grips him tighter and stands in the tub, water streaming off their bodies, Jaskier held safe and secure in his arms.

“Geralt!” Jaskier all but shrieks, swatting ineffectually at his shoulders, wrapping his legs tight around Geralt’s waist so he doesn’t fall, as if there was any chance of that. Geralt won’t let that happen, “What are you doing?!”

Geralt just hmmms, and steps out of the bath, carrying Jaskier across the room until he can set him down gently on the bed.

“Ugh,” Jaskier complains, “I’m dripping on the sheets!” It’s only after the words have left his mouth that he realises their second meaning, and he can’t suppress his laughter at it.

Geralt lets out what might be a laugh, a soft huff of breath that Jaskier hears easily even though Geralt has turned away to bring the food onto the bed with them. When he returns, Jaskier pulls him in for more kisses just because he can, and they get distracted in each other for a few more moments; warm, damp skin pressed together in the golden firelight.

They sprawl next to each other in comfortable quiet for a while, nibbling idly at the food and passing the bottle of wine back and forth. Its rich and spiced, strong enough to leave them both feeling loose and warm, although maybe that’s the bath, or the fire, or each other’s presence, or some combination of them all. Jaskier supposed it doesn’t really matter all that much; he has Geralt next to him, warm and safe and close, so what does it matter just why he feels so good?

Geralt glances over at him, the wine bottle raised to his lips, and catches Jaskier watching him. His mouth twitches up in a smile, his eyes soft in the firelight. He swallows, and sets the bottle aside

“What?” He asks.

Jaskier shrugs, “I just like looking at you.” He says, honestly. How could he not, when Geralt looks like this. Jaskier has made the comparison a thousand times, but Geralt really does remind him of some wild creature at rest, coiled muscle and the capacity for such great violence, but also just as great a gentleness contained in a form that while large, sometimes seems too small a thing to contain all of the essence of who Geralt _is. _

Geralt snorts and rolls his eyes, and leans over the gap between them, small as it is, to kiss Jaskier.

Jaskier knows it’s a ploy to shut him up - as much as Geralt wants it, he also isn’t always comfortable with praise and kind words, even from Jaskier - but he accepts it because he also happens to _really _like kissing Geralt. He sighs against Geralt’s mouth, lets his lips open and his tongue slide over his lips and into his mouth, tangling his fingers in damp white hair that he still intends to braid later, if he has the strength. He’s well aware that all he might want to do is sleep curled up in his Alpha’s arms so soon after receiving a Bite.

Kissing Geralt, and being kissed by Geralt, is nice, but what’s nicer is when Geralt rolls them both over, pressing Jaskier onto his back against the slightly-damp sheets, pinning him there with the weight of his body, but still exquisitely careful the entire time. Jaskier laughs into the kiss and hooks a leg around the back of Geralt’s thigh - he doesn’t have the strength to keep Geralt there if he wants to move away, but he doesn’t think Geralt does, and Jaskier definitely doesn’t want him to.

Geralt breaks the kiss to nuzzle against Jaskier’s throat, and Jaskier can’t help but arch into the touch, a high, thready moan slipping from between his lips. He feels the low huff of breath over the sensitive skin before Geralt murmurs, “Impatient.”

“Do you really blame me?” Jaskier asks, glaring down at him as much as he can, given how closely they’re pressed together. Actually, his cock is _very_ aware of how closely they’re pressed together, hard and already wet at the tip between their stomachs.

Geralt chuckles, a low, warm sound that Jaskier loves, and presses a lazy kiss to the edge of Jaskier’s jaw, trailing more of them down his throat and over his collarbone, just because he can. Jaskier is fast realising that Geralt might want to properly explore his body while they have the chance, a locked room and a clean bed, instead of blankets by a fire in an undefended clearing. He can’t begrudge Geralt that, but he wishes he’d choose a better time to appreciate his form than when he’s promised Jaskier a Bonding Bite. He whines, low in his throat as his hips twitch upwards without his conscious thought, body seeking more of that friction and sensation.

“Jaskier…” Geralt warns, and Jaskier _knows _that Geralt is going to tease him again, going to tell him to be patient and that he needs to calm himself, to wait, but Jaskier is _done _waiting.

“Geralt,” He hisses, fingers catching in white hair, twisting and pulling, hard, “Would you hurry up and fuck me? I’m ready. I have been since you closed that door behind you.”

Geralt bites at his shoulder in retaliation for the tugging on his hair, but it’s not hard, and not near enough to where Jaskier wants him to set his teeth, so Jaskier just rocks his hips up again to illustrate his point.

He thinks maybe Geralt will draw it out further, just to tease him, but Geralt is apparently feeling merciful, or he wants this as much as Jaskier does and is just better at hiding it than Jaskier is, because he pulls back from the embrace to settle one of Jaskier’s legs against his shoulder, lines the head of his cock up with Jaskier’s already slick hole, and presses in, in a long, slow thrust.

Jaskier arches his back, digging his heel into Geralt’s shoulder to encourage him. He wants to let his eyes closed, to revel in the sensation of being filled, _finally, _but more than that he wants to watch Geralt’s face, to look into his eyes, to watch pleasure overtake him.

Geralt’s hips are flush with the curve of Jaskier’s ass and both of them are breathing hard. They’re both all but shaking trying to hold still. Jaskier doesn’t _want _to hold still any longer, and twitches his hips up, encouraging Geralt to pull back and thrust again, starting up a rhythm between that that isn’t fast, but is deep and slow and somehow exactly what Jaskier hasn’t realised he wanted, or needed.

He feels consumed by Geralt, not claimed like he wants to be from a Bite, but held and treasured and loved, like he and Geralt are a part of each other already without any sort of claim even being laid. Jaskier knows that with a Bite, it’s only going to be _more, _and he wants it so desperately he doesn’t have words for it.

“Jaskier,” Geralt’s voice is low and rough, but Jaskier can hear how much emotion is in it all the same. Another might not, might not know how to read this incredible, improbable, wonderful man, but Jaskier has known from the start, “Are you sure?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier curls a hand around the back of Geralt’s neck and unhooks his leg from over his shoulder, tugging him down until their foreheads are all but pressed together.

“I’m sure.” He promises, “I love you. I want this.”

Geralt lets out a sharp sound, that Jaskier would call a gasp coming from anyone else. His golden eyes go wide and startled, and Jaskier can’t help but let out a little laugh.

“Of course I do.” He says, pressing a kiss to Geralt’s forehead, “Did you think that I didn’t?”

Geralt kisses him then, one calloused hand cupping Jaskier’s cheek so impossible gently, soft and warm and loving, and Jaskier just _knows _that Geralt is saying it too, in his own way. He’s never been one for fancy words or great declarations. He’s always made his feelings known through actions.

Geralt pulls back from the kiss, and opens his mouth to speak, and Jaskier silences him before he can say it, because he knows.

“I know.” He says gently, kissing him again, “I know.” One day, he might need Geralt to say it, but right now, it’s enough to know, “Geralt, _please_.”

Geralt smiles, and ducks his head, pressing his lips to Jaskier’s neck, kissing the place that will tie them together permanently.

Jaskier flexes the fingers of the hand that rests on the back of Geralt’s neck, but he doesn’t pull him down closer. Already his blood and his mind are singing with a chorus of _yes goof right want need mine mine MINE _and then Geralt sets his teeth to the sensitive skin and bites down.

It doesn’t hurt.

That’s the first thing Jaskier’s conscious mind registers. Geralt has bitten him before, during that first heat, and that _had_ hurt, bright flares of pain that had sharpened sensation and driven him closer to the edge. This doesn’t hurt nearly as much, barely a dull ache below the skin, the sensation of teeth clamped on skin and underlying muscle. But what Jaskier feels more than the bite itself is the Bond. He’d heard about how it _could _feel, but he hadn’t realised how other people’s words would translate into the reality of it. It’s like something has clicked into place, some part of him that wasn't missing so much as misaligned.

The rightness is only eclipsed by the pleasure. Jaskier has always been inclined towards it, but the lack of pain doesn’t stop his body from telling him that there should be some there, and it should feel good, and that pleasure rolls through him like a summer storm, making his gasp and moan and arch his back without meaning to, shouting his climax to the ceiling above them. Dimly, he’s aware that he’s gripping Geralt’s neck, probably too hard, that his nails are digging in and it probably hurts, but he’s more aware of Geralt growling and grunting above him, and the hot sensation of his spend inside of him as he follows Jaskier over the precipice.

Jaskier opens his eyes a short while later to find himself cradled in Geralt’s arms, body feeling pleasantly hazy and detached. The Bite at his neck aches, but it feels good in a strange, satisfying way. There’s another ache, familiar and twisting, in his belly, his body trying to tell him that there should be a child there now, or sometime in the future. There isn’t, and there won’t ever be, and Jaskier is thankful for that, but for a moment he lets himself think about it. Without realising, he presses a hand to his stomach and sighs a little wistfully, imagining that life he and Geralt could build if things were different.

“You know I can’t give you what you want.” Geralt says, surprising Jaskier.

Jaskier blinks, realising that Geralt, as usual, has read him correctly, or at least, somewhat correctly, and laughs, “Gods, Geralt, no matter what my body tries to tell me, I do _not _want a baby.” He laughs again, dispelling the thoughts that had been circling in his brain. They can’t change who they are, Geralt has already said that. “Just, uh,” He starts, considers. He’s not entirely certain, but he’s pretty sure he knows what this feeling is, “How much longer do we have this room for?”

“Just the night. Why?” Geralt asks, then pauses and sniffs the air, “Ah.” He realises.

“Yeah, I think we’re gonna need a few more.” Jaskier says, with a wince, “I think the Bite might have…sorry.” He doesn’t _really _feel bad about the prospect of spending a surprise Heat with Geralt, tucked away in a clean, dry, warm room.

“Don’t.” Geralt tells him, and pulls him into a kiss that goes on for longer than either of them probably planned it to, “I’ll make sure we’re not disturbed.” He pulls away with one last kiss, standing from the bed and beginning to dress, pulling on boots, breeches and shirt.

“Hurry back.” Jaskier says from his spot on the bed, leaning up on one elbow.

At the door, Geralt turns, his eyes seeming to shine in the firelight, and Jaskier can see the place where he dug his fingernails into Geralt’s neck, leaving marks that will scar the same way his Bite has, his own way of claiming.

“Always, Jaskier.” Geralt says.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm marking this series as complete for now, because I don't have any more parts planned at the moment. That might change one day, but it's not something I'm actively pursuing at the moment. 
> 
> Come find me on [Tumblr](https://demerite.tumblr.com/) or[Twitter](https://twitter.com/_demerite)!


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